


Immurement

by Bored_Panda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brief Mentions Of Rape, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Graphic Description Of Bullying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, bully!lock, everyone regrets everything, happy ending probably, minor victor trevor/john watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bored_Panda/pseuds/Bored_Panda
Summary: John Watson was beautiful. Sherlock Holmes keeps doing the ugliest things to him. Years pass, and fixing John Watson might be Sherlock's greatest puzzle, yet.Co-Created with Sherazyjade.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Victor Trevor/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. To Break

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betad.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated.

Loud laughters followed the splashing noises, filling the tiny room as well as the locked men bathroom. Only one of the three bullies could enter the toilet stal, but the two others were watching from above his shoulders the poor helpless teen had his head forced inside the toilet bowl. Long seconds pass before he's let up, just enough time for him to take a sharp, instinctive breath, before pushing him back into the dirty, soiled and not-cleaned water. "Look at how the little whore is wiggling his bottom." He pushed the pants and trousers of the boy down, pushing in his big, gross index finger inside his tight entrance, chuckling. "The slut's squirming around it, so cute!" That one bully was Mike Stanford. Gentle, kind bloke, he was blindly in admiration for the leader of their small group, and therefore, became the worst to make him proud. The other one was Greg Lestrade, watching with delight as pain is inflicted on the weirdo of the school. Leaning against the sink, Sherlock Holmes watches, leader and first to have stread hatred and rumors about John Watson, the newbie, the weak student who was always studying and licking the teachers' asses. "Keep his fucking head where it belongs, Mike. His brain won't lack of oxygen before a while." He approaches the toilet bowl, opening his trousers. And Sherlock pisses on John's head. 

*

Once, John had been loved. He had been cared for, adored, told he was gifted, and smart. Once, John had had friends. He'd had people to kiss, to hug, to laugh with, and to complain with. And then Harry had come out, their parents had gotten a divorce, and John was forced to move far, far away. He had thought that his new school would have been fine, like any other, that he'd make friends, find people to kiss, to laugh with. But as soon as he'd stepped foot through the door, John had run chest-first into Sherlock Holmes. And it was from that day that John's life went souther than he'd ever thought possible. At first, just some light shoves, occasional mocks, and then—well, it wasn't his first time being shoved into a toilet bowl head-first. He squirmed, gasping, panicking, but not fighting. Never fighting, not anymore. He'd fought back one and he had scars from the base of his fingers to the tips. A miraculous thing, the doctor had said, John's fingers had been shattered, powdered in some places, but he had had just enough left to escape with nothing but a few hideous scars that were impossible to hide. But since then, John hadn't fought back. He gasped, and a lungful of the grimy water forced its way down his throat as the fingers wormed and pushed into his dry hole. Tears would have blurred his eyes if it weren't for the toilet water already coating them. The fingers dug deeper into him. The water muffled John's scream. Just as they pulled away and John began to relax, a warm stream hit the back of his head, and though no one was holding him down, he kept his face in the dirty, stained toilet bowl, and allowed Sherlock Holmes to piss into his blonde hair. 

*

Sherlock let the pressure of his bladder release over John's head. His low voice mocked the man with a fake, praising tone. "Look at how the weirdo learns his lesson. ....Mike!" He called again, as an another idea hit his mind. "The whore clearly loves pee and he is happily going to drink mine. If he doesn't do it properly, break his ankles. Make sure he'll need a wheelchair until the days of his useless days." Sherlock held back the rest, giving time for John to turn his head. His ugly face. Fuck, how badly Sherlock wanted to turn that face into a bloody mush. 

*

John didn't know why Sherlock hated him so much. Frankly, John didn't want to know, he didn't need reason to hate himself more. For the couple of seconds, John could pretend that Sherlock's praises didn't have a mocking bite to them, that he was truly calling him beautiful and lovely and sexy, just as people had called him before, when he'd been loved. But the venom there and John's breaking mind didn't have the energy to imagine anything. The boy shivered, fear turning him a pale, sickly color as he shook, his hair dripping toilet water and piss onto his shirt, his eyes averted and his lips parted open. It was easier if he played along. Already, his dreams of becoming a surgeon had be crushed (literally), he didn't need his ankles broken, too. 

*

Sherlock didn't bother with aiming well. On the opposite, he pissed in John's mouth until he was satisfied the man had been drinking enough for his stomach to ache, and then, he let the rest cover the man's face and chest, spilling some over his trousers and underwear, fully marking him. Then, Sherlock wiped his penis on John's cheeks, and over that tongue that he pinched and forced out so he could wipe his cock like with a wet wipe. "Fucking useless thing," He spat over his face. How badly he wanted to hurt him. "Mike! Greg! I changed my mind." He stepped out of the stall, getting dressed again. "Break him." 


	2. To Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-betad.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated.

John was pretty. Everyone said so. He had light blonde hair, which, upon closer inspection, had a million other shades in it. He had blue eyes, which changed color with his mood. Thin, pink lips would stretch into the most beautiful grin whenever given the slightest opportunity, and hidden dimples would expose themselves as his mind relaxed. He wasn't too tall, most likely on the shorter side of things, but he had been fit, rugby captain, on the track team. And his mind—his biology teacher had told him that there would most likely not be a single issue with getting into a top medical school. And if they could see him now... drenched in piss, his breath reeking, tears slipping out of his eyes, thin, shaking, with no happiness or sun in any corner of him, they'd laugh. They'd say that they had the wrong man, that this wasn't John Watson. The boy curled in on himself as the first wave of kicks and punches began. He wordlessly took them, feeling his ribs bruise. He didn't bother when Greg put all his weight on John's wrists, and Mike put all his weight John's ankles. He didn't bother when he heard them crunch, and when he heard them snap.

*

Sherlock watched hungrily, observed the man, whose fate, he had ruined, and he found pleasure in seeing that. He didn't stop his two friends, letting them find relief in the tortures they put the teen through. If anything, he never wanted it to stop. It was so... Addicting. At first, it had been the worried, shy glance of John after an accidental bump in the hallways. And then, it was the fear when he saw Sherlock, knowing he'd be mocked and insulted. It was intoxicating, and the longer it went on, the worse it became. Because Sherlock couldn't heal himself from that addiction. So, he watched, listened to the broken noises until the school bell put an end to their game. "Mike, Greg, you can leave. I'll stay a bit longer." He crouched in front of John.

*

He didn't hurt enough to be broken. He knew what broken felt. At worst, he'd been sprained, perhaps have a couple hairline fracture, he'd miss a few days of school, fall behind, come back and go through it all over again. He couldn't hold back the whimper as Mike and Greg were dismissed, Sherlock coming to crouch in front of John's face, his body predatory, and John's a mess of aching, punished, and numb limbs. His lips shook as he looked up at the boy, the beautiful boy, with high cheekbones and beautiful lips and beautiful eyes. John had wondered many times over how someone so beautiful could be so evil. Finally, he'd come to the conclusion that it was him, that it was his fault. Nothing new there, everything was. "What are you going to do?" He asked, blinking sluggishly, his heart pounding, "Why me?" And he found himself glad as a sob escaped his lips before the latter of the words could.

*

"I am going to kill you." Very slowly, Sherlock's long and beautiful fingers got wrapped around John's neck. There was no rush, it was almost sensual and one could have believed it was a lover's touch until the hands started to squeeze. The softness, the tenderness soon became hard and unforgiving, totally cutting off John's oxygen. Sherlock stared into his eyes deeply as his mind was screaming that this was the way, the only way he could be freed from his addiction to John Watson.

*

John could barely mutter a "What?" with his hoarse voice. In fact, he didn't even try. His body slackened as he felt Sherlock's fingers wrap around his neck, his own eyes still wide but... not as they were before. They were resigned. They held no fear in them, no hatred, only peace. And perhaps, even a smile. He watched his life, he and Harry playing in the gardens, their mum and pa on a picnic blanket nearby. He watched Leila, his first friend, his first kiss, and Victor, his first boyfriend. A small smile worked its way onto John's face as Sherlock's fingers tightened. He watched the world spin as he danced, grinning widely, a million bodies around him in a club he'd managed to sneak into. He was dying, he knew, but he was living, he was alive, more alive he'd been since after he'd moved to this hell.

*

Sherlock waited anxiously for the moment he would see the light in John's eyes disappear. But the second it happened, he released the boy, standing up suddenly. No. No, fuck, no, no. He stepped back, slowly, his hands in front of him like if they were burnt. Sherlock left the stall. Left the bathroom. Left the school. And never came back.


End file.
